Sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare—
At last a frightful summerset he threw
Right on the shingles. Any one could swear
The lad was dead—without a chance of perjury,
And batter’d by the surge beyond all surgery!
However, we snatch’d up the corse thus thrown,
Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it,
And after venting Pity’s sigh and groan,
Then Curiosity began with her fit;
And lo! the features of the Small Unknown!